


Another One Bites the Dust

by RuinNine



Series: Valhalla over Heaven [5]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Established Relationship, Guys Being Guys, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, M/M, challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinNine/pseuds/RuinNine
Summary: Finan the Agile does not do jealousy.
Relationships: Finan/Sihtric (The Last Kingdom)
Series: Valhalla over Heaven [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568359
Comments: 30
Kudos: 115





	Another One Bites the Dust

**Author's Note:**

> No native speaker. No money. Just fun.
> 
> I just had to do this. Because, if we were to be honest, every fandom needs one of these. :D  
> Enjoy the new season, everyone!
> 
> And last but not least: hail Gimli, my bestie in bad taste! Thank you for your awesome friendship and your honest opinion!

\<|>/  
  
  
“A pair of quick feet on that one.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“And he has a few surprise moves up his sleeve.”  
  
“Guess so.”  
  
“Actually, he reminds me of you.”  
  
The last statement served to shake Finan out of his glaring at the young warrior in question in favour of levelling the very same glare at Uhtred. They had picked up Berg Skallagrimmrson at Abergwaun and Finan had to admit that his change from terrified prisoner under a sentence of death to eager and loyal follower had been concluded astonishingly quickly. Following the victory at Ceaster, they had put him on the training rosters headed by Merewalh while they rested, and even though he had lost a legendary weapon in Ice-Spite, the way he handled the blunt practice swords showed great promise. But 'great promise' was nowhere near Finan's own sword-craft skills, a level that could only be reached after years and years of actual combat.  
  
No wonder he was not impressed by Uhtred's comparison. “Really,” he asked, tone mocking, yet too offended to pretend he was joking. “What is it you think we have in common? The dashing looks, the clever mouth, the witty mind?”  
  
Uhtred's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline, a spark of interest igniting in his eyes. God _damn_ it. Now he had the wolf on his trail. The days after Sigtryggr's defeat had seen Uhtred in a black mood. The loss of his treasured daughter Stiorra to the Norseman's charms had hurt him more than he'd like to admit, and he had finished his recovery isolated in the house assigned to him by Æthelflaed, with only Eadith for company. The palpable tension between the Lord of Bebbanburg and the Lady of Mercia did nothing to lift Uhtred's spirits, and Finan suspected avoiding her fury was at the top of the list of reasons why he had chosen to stay out of sight for a few days.  
  
But Uhtred had emerged from his self-imposed exile well-rested and clear-eyed, looking much better than he had in a long while. Finan noted how effortlessly he moved and talked now, and the constant fear of losing his lord and friend he had been carrying around for months finally subsided. The relief was short-lived, however, as Uhtred – bored as he was after spending days in a dark and stuffy house – pounced onto the promise of entertainment like a wolf onto its prey.  
  
“You don't like him?”  
  
Finan crossed his arms and pretended to pay close attention to the new blood sparring in the training yard, so his lord wouldn't see the truth in his eyes. “I like him well enough,” he muttered, then winced as Berg sent yet another of his opponents sprawling in the dust. He did show great promise. But then the young Norseman looked up and scanned the crowd of experienced warriors gathered to heckle the rookies, his gaze catching on Sihtric on the other side of the yard, and Finan scowled. He did that _every bloody time_ he won a practice fight, like a dog craving its owner's approval, and it bothered Finan to no end.  
  
It wasn't that Sihtric encouraged this kind of behaviour. He rarely offered any more praise to the youngster than he would to any other of his fellow warriors, and at Berg's victory just seconds ago, he hadn't even looked up from sharpening his sword with a whetstone. And yet he frequently gave in to Berg's constant requests of sparring matches, patiently correcting mistakes and offering tactical advice. Sometimes he even taught him the latest jokes as they rested after, something he usually only shared with Osferth.  
  
Well. Maybe he did encourage it after all.  
  
A deep sigh tore Finan out of his thoughts. “Oh, no.” When Finan turned to him, confused, Uhtred dramatically covered his face with his hands. “Thor help us,” he cried, drawing the attention of half the yard. Berg included.  
  
Finan sent a dark look around the circle of bystanders who all suddenly found something better to do than gawk. “What on Earth are you on about?”  
  
Uhtred pulled his hands away from his face to grant him the full view of his disbelieving stare. Suddenly aware of the spectacle he was providing for the men surrounding them, he leaned close to Finan, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don't tell me you're actually jealous!”  
  
Finan could only blink at him, bewildered. “What?”  
  
Finan the Agile did _not_ do jealousy. Jealousy was a weakness, found in men who lacked confidence in their own skills. And Finan was nothing if not confident of his own skills. There were few who surpassed his intuition and experience when it came to sword-craft, he could hold his liquor better than most and he deserved just as much credit as Uhtred for the complex war strategies that had granted them all those victories in the years they had worked together.  
  
Looking at Berg, he saw nothing that should prompt jealousy, and he told Uhtred as much. “Hell freezes over before I get jealous of green-eared pups who can barely raise a sword and still miss hiding behind their mother's skirts!”  
  
A loud cheer cut off Uhtred's reply and they both turned back to the training yard where Berg was thrusting his sword into the air, celebrating yet another victory. Sihtric was watching this time, an approving grin on his face as he locked eyes with the Norseman and congratulated him with a nod. Berg preened at the sight, then accepted the praises of his fellow trainees with gleeful shouts. Stomach twisting, Finan briefly closed his eyes against the horrible sight. No, he thought determinedly, Finan the Agile definitely did not do jealousy.  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
Sihtric found him later that night, keeping a jug of ale sullen company in a corner of the dimly lit hall. It was already late, past midnight for sure, and most of the warriors and nobles usually milling about had either gone home or fallen asleep where they sat. The only other occupants still awake were three dogs, making the most of the glimmering coals in the hearth and warming their bellies on the rugs surrounding it. Finan had vowed to return to the house he shared with Sihtric and Osferth after he finished his last drink, but the ale tasted strange, almost sour, and the jug was still half-full. So technically it wasn't his fault he was still sitting there when Sihtric wandered into the hall. One of the dogs raised its head, ears pricking up, but when it became apparent that the newcomer had not come to offer food, it lay back down with a gentle huff.  
  
Sihtric glanced into the jug as he sat down on the bench across from him, raising an eyebrow when he saw it wasn't empty. “Osferth was worried we'd find you in a ditch somewhere,” he started casually, but Finan knew him long enough to be able to hear the steel beneath.  
  
Finan traced the rim of his tankard with a finger. “I needed to think about something.”  
  
Sihtric cocked his head. “And you couldn't do that in my company?”  
  
He sounded more curious than angry, and maybe a tiny bit disappointed. Finan stopped fidgeting with the tankard, relaxing against the back of the chair. So this wasn't about Berg and Uhtred's horrid accusation. His lord could be trusted with a secret, even one shared unwillingly, but he wasn't above stepping across the line of brotherly confidentiality if he thought it was for the best. He could have shared his suspicion with Sihtric in the hopes of quelling the unrest brewing within his war-band before it could even erupt, but it seemed like his lord had decided to wait and watch instead. For now.  
  
No, this was about Finan skirting the rare opportunity to retreat with Sihtric behind solid walls and be alone for a few precious hours. Granted, Osferth was probably there as well, but whenever the three of them shared a room, their brother randomly claimed a corner to set up his bedroll, faced the wall and quickly fell asleep. Despite his unwavering faith and pious nature, he'd never held their bond against them, nor baulked at them sharing a bed. He drew the line at more than sleeping, though. Which was fine with Finan, he didn't want an audience for that anyway.  
  
All in all, Finan didn't really have a good reason for sitting here alone, especially after being separated from Sihtric for so long at Abergwaun – which reminded him of the reason for his dark mood. Sihtric saw his sudden scowl and braced against the table on his elbows, leaning forward to catch his gaze. “You've had something on your mind since Wales.”  
  
He said no more, leaving the decision of whether or not to share to Finan, and he felt a surge of affection for his lover. Despite Sihtric's disapproval of his choice to keep to himself, he had just made it clear he would still allow him to maintain that distance if he wanted to, and Finan's resolve started to crumble. He could come clean now, tell him about his dislike of Berg and the reason for it. Sihtric deserved as much.  
  
“Remember when we left that godforsaken place?”  
  
_Walking onto the narrow bridge leading aboard the Ðrines and stepping off Welsh land, Finan felt nothing but enormous relief. He couldn't wait to leave this harsh, dangerous place. Coming here on a wild-goose chase for a sword – of all things! – was not how he had envisioned himself setting foot on Welsh soil. Not that he had been eager to cross the border in the first place, no sane man did that. Doing so with only a handful of men, without knowing what awaited them, was an even worse idea. But their insane hunt for that damn sword had paid off, whisking Uhtred off the path to certain death and onto the road to recovery.  
  
__His lord followed closely behind him, with Berg at his heels, and he didn't seem to have any trouble moving across the rickety board onto the ship. He looked much better now, laughing at something Berg said, and Finan abandoned his constant watch over his lord in favour of looking for someone else.  
  
_“ _Finan.”  
  
__Who found him first. He turned towards the familiar voice he had missed so badly, just in time to accept the embrace Sihtric immediately pulled him into. “Any injuries?”  
  
__Finan shook his head, seizing the opportunity to burrow into Sihtric's neck while he was at it, covertly inhaling his scent. It instantly calmed him, and yet he forced himself to step back again. Too many eyes on them out here in the open. Even King Hywel had come to see them off, if only to make sure they left his lands without further delay. “Not a scratch. Any trouble on your end?”  
  
_“ _None.” Sihtric squeezed his shoulder, then let him go. “Let's share an oar and you can tell me all about your heroic deeds. And the new face.”  
  
__Finan followed Sihtric's gaze to Berg who huddled close to Uhtred at the steering oar, still unsure about his place among his new lord's already established crew. Finan had been prepared to recount what he knew about Berg so far (how eager he was to show his loyalty, how funny his jokes were, how Sihtric would definitely appreciate his sense of humour), but the words got stuck in his throat at the sight of the unusual frown on the youngster's face. He was watching the two of them closely, eyes unhappy as they switched from Finan to Sihtric and back again. Finan felt his hackles rise in response, a knee-jerk reaction to anyone sneering at their closeness, and he steered Sihtric around to pick a bench near the prow, far from Berg's unfriendly gaze.  
  
_“ _Not much to tell about that one yet.”  
  
_Berg's misgivings had not dissuaded him from seeking Sihtric out specifically for lessons in swordplay, and Finan couldn't for the life of him figure out why. If Berg didn't approve of them sharing such a close bond, it didn't make any sense for him to spend so much time in close proximity to someone he probably considered a sinner. Or maybe he found he liked Sihtric despite his attachment to Finan and had decided to discard his reservations? A sudden change of heart seemed highly unlikely, though, and Finan was determined to keep his guard up in case the little troublemaker decided to start wailing about sodomy and holy matrimony after all.  
  
Sihtric softly cleared his throat, dissipating the memory he had been caught up in. “What about it?”  
  
Finan didn't reply immediately, still debating his next course of action. What if his hunch proved wrong? He didn't want to interfere with an upcoming friendship (if that was all there was to it) between Sihtric and Berg who seemed dead set on carving a place for himself in Uhtred's ranks, whether Finan liked it or not. And he certainly wasn't interested in picking a quarrel with his lover when there was no need. Not yet.  
  
Decision made, he shrugged, going for nonchalance. “I just... I keep thinking about the Welsh. They are looking towards our territory, and I fear they will make a move soon.”  
  
Sihtric didn't believe him, not completely, Finan could tell. But he didn't pry further. “Not tonight.”  
  
“No, not tonight.”  
  
“Sleep, then?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
He couldn't watch Berg with tired eyes after all.  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
At breakfast, he wasn't the only one watching, though. Finan and Uhtred had arrived late after the Lady Æthelflaed had demanded an early update on the patrols watching the rivers Mærse and Dee for any signs that Sigtryggr had decided to try his hand yet again at the capture of Ceaster. When they finally reached the great hall, there were few seats left. Merewalh, who had been summoned alongside them, went to sit with his men while Finan and Uhtred joined their own. A chorus of more and less awake greetings met them.  
  
“We saved you the best seats,” Gerbruht said, pointing at two empty chairs at the head of the table. “There's not much food left, though.”  
  
Finan took stock of the piles of bread, cheese and apples still strewn along the table and shook his head, smiling. Only Gerbruht could eat all that and still go hungry. He locked eyes with Sihtric at the other end, his smile turning wider, but it soured when he realized who was sitting right next to him. Berg, of course. The youngster held his dark gaze, giving him a bright grin in return. Then he waved. An actual wave, as if they were old friends who hadn't seen each other in years. Irritated by the unwanted familiarity, Finan huffed and started heaping food onto his plate.  
  
“You know,” Uhtred said thoughtfully, voice low, “there's a custom among Danes-” He stopped suddenly, waiting for Finan to confirm he was listening.  
  
Finan had no idea what he wanted to hear, so he chose to mock him a little instead. “They eat breakfast like we do?”  
  
His lord rolled his eyes, but he wasn't to be deterred. “There's a custom among Danes – _and_ Norsemen – for when a man asks for the hand of a woman – _or_ a man – who is already due to marry another.”  
  
Finan was waiting for more, for example the reason why Uhtred had decided to discuss this random piece of information now of all times, but Uhtred kept looking at him expectantly. “And you're telling me this, because...?”  
  
Uhtred exhaled heavily, annoyed at the lack of understanding he took as fake, and leaned closer to him as if that would make him cave quicker. “Look at Berg and tell me again you don't know where I'm going with this.”  
  
Despite his own temper rising, Finan obeyed and looked over to the other end of the table. Berg was still watching him with rapt attention. Studying him, more like. “Oh, no.”  
  
“Oh, yes.”  
  
“You can't be serious.” Uhtred gave him a look that said 'why would I lie to you', and Finan heaved a miserable sigh. What a glorious mess. “What's the custom then?”  
  
“A challenge to fight.”  
  
Of course. It did make sense, unfortunately. It explained why Berg had looked like a dog had just mistaken his leg for a tree when he realized Sihtric was already spoken for, why he kept trying to impress him regardless, why he wanted to spend as much time as possible with him, why he was practising tirelessly with a sword. Most of all, it explained why he was observing Finan so closely, like a rival on the field of battle. Because he was a rival. And Berg was looking for any weaknesses he could exploit to defeat him and win Sihtric's favour. The little shit.  
  
“Wait!” Uhtred's hand closed tightly around his elbow, and Finan only realized then he had been about to rush to his feet and march over to the earsling to give him a mighty clipping around the green ears he wouldn't forget any time soon. “Sit down!”  
  
Finan took a deep breath to temper the sudden burst of outrage, then sat back down, purposely avoiding looking at his fellow brothers. The last thing he needed was a glimpse of Berg's smug grin. A hush had fallen over the men in anticipation of a row between their lord and his second-in-command, but the various conversations started up again when no argument was forthcoming. Gritting his teeth, Finan turned back to Uhtred who was still holding on tight to his elbow. “I'm calm.”  
  
“And I'm the Pope,” Uhtred said drily, but he let him go nonetheless.  
  
“I was about to put an end to this nonsense now before the poor lad makes a fool of himself in front of everyone.”  
  
The expression on Uhtred's face told him he didn't believe Finan cared one bit about Berg's integrity. “I told you about this so you would be prepared _just in case_. I am not entirely certain that he is actually planning a challenge. It could be nothing.”  
  
Finan gave him an incredulous look. “Like what?”  
  
“Maybe he wants to learn from the best. He might come to you next, begging for lessons.”  
  
“If he does, I _will_ box his ears.”  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
The opportunity presented itself much sooner than he had anticipated. That same afternoon, the training yard was mostly empty for once, since Merewalh had taken a large number of his men and all of his trainees on a patrol to Brunanburh while the rest of the garrison manned the surrounding walls. With no one to compete with, Uhtred's men had taken to lounging about the yard, enjoying a rare day of aimless idleness. Uhtred's son was giving Gerbruht a hard time at dice with Osferth watching disapprovingly, even though no one doubted he was enjoying it. Uhtred was busy negotiating with a Frisian merchant selling knives, trying to barter his old blade for a new one with the argument of notoriety.  
  
“You could sell it for five times its worth if you told them it belonged to the most famous pagan in Britain!”  
  
“Lord-”  
  
“You can add priest-killer if you like. That'll scare them. And fear sells, doesn't it?”  
  
“It does,” the merchant grudgingly admitted. After a few seconds of brooding, he huffed, holding out the knife in question and beckoning for Uhtred to hand over his old weapon. “Deal.”  
  
Finan, who had been listening to the squabble from his comfortable perch on the railing surrounding the yard, couldn't suppress a grin. Uhtred had a way with people, from kitchen maids all the way up to high-ranking nobles, even though he would never acknowledge it. The lord liked to think people respected him out of fear, but that was only half the truth. The rest was rooted in kindness, generosity and fair judgement, if often hidden inside a blunt and frequently offensive shell.  
  
“I should've let him bargain for me, too.”  
  
Even though the words were bitter, Sihtric sounded more amused than disappointed. If the way he was happily twirling his own new knife in his hands was any indication, he hadn't minded the price he had eventually agreed on with the merchant. Finan reached over to steal the weapon from him, inspecting the lean, but wickedly sharp blade and the short ebony handle. “You chose well. It's beautiful.”  
  
Sihtric grinned, pleased by the compliment, and took the knife back. With a swift and practised move, the blade disappeared into a thin leather casing he carried strapped to his forearm, hidden beneath his sleeve. “Just like you.”  
  
Finan laughed out loud, content with the ease of their banter and – for once – the lack of war looming on the horizon. The peace was doomed to be short-lived as hurried footsteps approached the yard. Berg rounded the corner, with his shoulders drawn tight and an intensely determined expression on his face. What really caught the attention of the warriors gathered in the yard, however, were the mismatched pieces of armour he wore, as well as the sword strapped to his waist. It was a beautiful weapon, a far cry from the retired practice swords with its gleaming handle and polished leather scabbard, and Finan found himself wondering where he'd gotten it. Then it actually registered that Berg was clad in full battle attire despite their day off. And that he was heading straight for him. Jesus Christ.  
  
He opened his mouth to greet the fool with a scathing rebuff, but Uhtred beat him to it. “Berg! I thought you'd gone with Merewalh?”  
  
Berg ground to a halt, grudgingly turning to address his lord instead of Finan. “There is personal business I need to attend to, lord.” The title he tacked on did not conceal the irritation in his voice that showed he wouldn't take kindly to the lord interfering with this particular personal business.  
  
Uhtred didn't miss that, of course. He raised an eyebrow, but instead of calling him out on it, he feigned ignorance. The bastard. “And what personal business would that be?”  
  
For a second or two, Berg didn't answer as he gathered his courage. The background noise from the city surrounding them seemed to die away as he steeled himself for what he was going to say while his brothers in arms were gawking at him, oblivious to the spectacle he was about to provide. Finan shook off the shock of Uhtred's warning coming true and decided to intervene while he still had the chance.  
  
“Berg, don't-”  
  
“Finan the Agile,” Berg spoke over him, using the only formal title associated with Finan. Now that he had started, the words were coming quickly, his voice growing stronger with each breath he took. “It is my wish to ask for your companionship. Seeing that you're not free to grant it, I hereby challenge Sihtric Kjartansson to a fight for your favour.” He turned to Sihtric, squaring his shoulders and looking him straight in the eye. “Do you accept?”  
  
Dead silence followed his challenge. Then Finan yelled, “You what?”  
  
For a brief moment, Berg looked startled by his hostile outburst, but then he obviously came to the conclusion that his best bet was to repeat his demand. “It is my wish to-”  
  
“I accept.”  
  
Sihtric's calm, yet commanding voice easily cut through Berg's second attempt, and the Norseman immediately stopped talking, looking almost relieved as he acknowledged his assent with a nod. Finan, on the other hand, was not silenced so easily. “You're all mad,” he snapped, jumping off the railing and pointing an accusing finger at Sihtric. “You shouldn't encourage this nonsense!”  
  
Sihtric wasn't fazed by his temper. Unruffled, he checked the clasps of his armour for any loose ends, then drew his sword before unhooking the scabbard from around his waist so it wouldn't restrain his movements. “It's tradition,” he said simply.  
  
Finan still couldn't wrap his head around this horrible turn of events. So naturally, that statement did nothing to put his mind at ease. “But why me? He's been training with you!”  
  
“To get a good look at my fighting skills, I suspect,” Sihtric explained calmly. He inclined his head at Berg. “It was a clever approach, I must give you that.”  
  
Berg smiled weakly, taken aback by the unexpected praise. Finan, however, narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You don't seem surprised.”  
  
Sihtric flexed his fingers around the handle of his sword, annoyed – and probably a little embarrassed – that Finan would deny him the right to defend his honour. “That's because I'm not.”  
  
All of a sudden, Finan was at a loss for what to say. He couldn't believe Sihtric actually felt like he had to proof anything to him – or even worse, to Berg. And even in the highly unlikely event that the Norseman won the fight, Finan would never choose Berg over Sihtric. The thought itself was so absurd he almost laughed out loud. And yet the laughter died in his throat as he suddenly wondered what would happen should he, in case the youngster won the challenge, reject Berg's rightful claim (if you could even call it rightful on Saxon territory governed by Saxon law). He should have asked Uhtred about that. It would be good to know whether he and Sihtric were about to gain a mortal enemy.  
  
“Finan?”  
  
He forced his focus back to the present and took a look around. Uhtred was gesturing for him to step out of the yard. Young Uhtred, Gerbruht and Osferth had already abandoned their game of dice and were leaning against the railing, and while the first two looked like they couldn't wait to be entertained by a good fight, the latter looked slightly worried, no doubt concerned for his brother's safety. At last, his gaze caught on Berg and Sihtric who were already in position at opposite ends of the fighting ground. They were watching him, waiting for him to retreat out of their way, and while Finan could now discern Berg's look as longing, Sihtric's face was giving nothing away. Neither seemed willing to step down. Thrice-damned _Northmen_!  
  
“Fine,” he scoffed and ducked behind the railing. “See if I pick _any of you_ when this is finished.”  
  
Uhtred couldn't suppress a grin at his theatrics, but didn't respond. With all the authority of his position, he stepped up between the duellers and gave each a long and serious look to make sure they were paying attention. “This challenge is _not_ to the death. It ends when one of you cannot continue to fight or chooses to yield. Understood?”  
  
Berg drew his sword and widened his stance, already solely focused on his rival. “Understood.”  
  
And in an instant, Sihtric's whole demeanour changed. Balancing his weight evenly, he drew back his shoulders and lifted his chin. His eyes were cold as ice, as was his voice that reverberated around the yard when he spoke. “Then come, show us your worth.”  
  
The fellow brother in arms was gone, and in his place stood a warrior who had survived countless shield-walls – an opponent that was to be feared. It was a good start, Finan thought, as he looked over to gauge Berg's reaction. Unsettled by the sudden display of confidence and battle-experience, the Norseman hesitated, but he recovered quickly and decided to resort to insults to buy himself a precious few seconds and regain his composure. “Since you're twice as old as I am, you should attack first. I don't think you have it in you to strike a second blow.”  
  
Sihtric ignored the taunt. “ _You_ challenged _me_ , boy. Now put your money where your mouth is.”  
  
That seemed to strike home as anger flared in Berg's eyes. It was the only warning Sihtric got before he suddenly jumped forward and their swords clashed with a deafening clang. As Finan watched Berg force Sihtric onto the defensive with only two strikes, one thing became awfully clear: in all the training matches he had observed, Berg had apparently held back. While yes, he had won them all, he had never appeared unbeatable, as if his fellow trainees might just win the fight as long as they came up with a superior tactic and a little bit of luck.  
  
But now, with the challenge on the line, Berg held nothing back. Very fast on his feet, he seemed light as a feather as he danced out of reach one second, only to lunge with a powerful cut the next. Sihtric had not counted on his opponent to reveal such hidden strength, either, and his surprise showed in the desperate blocks he was driven into by Berg's relentless assault. A particularly savage blow from the Norseman caught him on the wrong foot, upset his balance, and he stumbled back a step, crashing into the railing surrounding the yard. The unexpected collision forced the air from his lungs and he tumbled down onto one knee, gasping. As he folded in on himself, the tip of his sword met the ground with a high chime, and Finan opened his mouth to yell a warning – but Berg didn't move in to finish him off, and the shout got stuck in his throat.  
  
All he could do was watch on with bated breath as Berg stepped back, apparently to take a break. Or, judging by the cocksure grin on his face, to goat Sihtric into retaliation and therefore increase the humiliation of his ultimate defeat. And it seemed like he would get his way. Sihtric picked himself up with great effort, his breath still coming in short, hard gasps. He didn't look ready to give up yet, even though Finan could see how much it cost him to straighten back up. The shoulder of his sword arm had born the brunt of the impact, and he rotated it gingerly, unable to suppress a grimace of pain.  
  
Berg watched him languidly, twirling his sword. There was no sweat on his brow, and his long hair stirred in the wind like a halo. He looked like a god of the old times, as if he had just jumped off the pages of an ancient chronicle into the here and now. His next words, however, proved he was still simply a young warrior, sure of his victory and eager to earn a reputation. “Now would be a good time to yield, old man.” Sihtric took a few steps away from the railing, then shook his head silently. He made no move to attack. Berg sighed. “Let's finish this then.”  
  
And once again, he jumped forward with a lunge, grinning as he struck like lightning. Sihtric barely managed to raise his weapon in time, and when the swords met with a bang, he couldn't suppress a curse. His bruised shoulder immediately caved under the pressure, causing his block to crumble, and Berg whooped as he saw his opening appear. He forced Sihtric back a pace with a feint, and his opponent – distracted by pain – fell for the trap. Exposing his sword arm, he could not prevent the cut from coming in fast. Berg's blade slashed across the back of his hand, and Sihtric let go of his sword with a startled yell, then bent back to avoid being struck in the face with the handle. Sensing the advantage, Berg kept advancing, using his momentum to drive his shoulder into his chest.  
  
Sihtric hit the ground hard, curling in agony around his wounded hand. It was bleeding steadily, dripping bright spots of red colour onto the sand, but the cut didn't seem too deep. If it had, nothing would have stopped Finan from storming the yard and giving Berg a piece of his mind – and his sword. As it was, he was still watching as Berg swayed back on his feet to take a deep breath in preparation for his killing blow.  
  
And it was that one second of carelessness that cost him his victory.  
  
Quick as a snake, Sihtric suddenly uncoiled. Twisting within reach, his foot connected with Berg's left ankle, kicking back his shin with a loud snap. Thrown off-balance, Berg automatically leaned forward to compensate for the abrupt shift of gravity, and Sihtric shot to his feet to meet him. The motion was fluid, unhindered by the pain that had incapacitated him before. Grabbing Berg's sword arm by the wrist with one hand and bending the blade out of reach, he delivered a vicious blow to the tendons in his forearm with the other.  
  
Berg's fingers opened reflexively, the weapon clattering to the ground, and he wasn't given time to even think of a response before he slammed into the dirt face-first. Breath escaping in one brutal exhale, he could only wheeze in protest when Sihtric climbed onto his back and pinned him down, rendering him unable to move. Then the cold touch of a knife flared across his neck and Berg immediately stilled, shutting his mouth against the curses trying to escape.  
  
And just like that, the fight was over.  
  
For a few long seconds, stunned silence reigned in the yard. Then Gerbruht started clapping, and soon enough, all their brothers were applauding and cheering uproariously. Sihtric grinned, almost shyly, and climbed back onto his feet. After sheathing his knife, he offered a hand up to Berg who grudgingly took it. Needless to say, the Norseman did not appear too pleased with the outcome of the fight he had expected to win. The smudge of dirt covering the left half of his face, however, certainly impeded the force of his glare.  
  
“You bastard,” he said, but then – to everyone's surprise – he started laughing and thumping Sihtric on the back. “You tricked me! Well done!”  
  
Sihtric joined in the laughter. “I think we both deserve some ale for our efforts.”  
  
The declaration was met with more clapping and hollering before their brothers grabbed Berg, dusting him off and pulling him with them down the street towards the nearest tavern, excited chatter trailing them. Only Uhtred lingered, meeting Finan's bewildered gaze with a smirk. “Northmen, eh?”  
  
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and followed the ruckus around the corner, and they were finally alone. Sihtric bent down to retrieve his sword, then picked up the discarded scabbard and sheathed it carefully. “I guess,” he said, “that custom must seem strange to you.”  
  
Finan, still reeling from what he had just witnessed, took a moment to think about his answer. “Not as strange as the sudden agreement on collective drinking.”  
  
Sihtric shrugged and leaned against the railing next to him. “Well, there's no use dwelling on his defeat. He tried his luck and didn't succeed.”  
  
“So that's it? He won't try again?”  
  
To his surprise, Sihtric didn't even hesitate. “No. Trying again would be seen as a weakness, and ruin his reputation.” He grinned. “You're safe from his advances now.”  
  
“You're enjoying this, aren't you,” Finan said accusingly, even though he couldn't quite manage to suppress a grin of his own. The whole situation was entirely too ridiculous to not be funny. “I was so sure that bastard was after _you_.”  
  
“Absolutely not. I could tell he was already pining for you when you returned to the Ðrines.”  
  
“Why didn't you say anything? I would've told him right away I wasn't interested.”  
  
Sihtric shrugged again, and his gaze dropped to his injured hand resting on the railing. The gash had finally stopped bleeding, but it would have to be cleaned and bound soon to avoid infection. “Well,” he said quietly, almost under his breath, “maybe I didn't want that.”  
  
Finan frowned, opening his mouth to argue. But then a sudden epiphany hit him and he laughed out loud instead. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he exclaimed. “You wanted him to challenge you.” The way Sihtric started squirming told him all he needed to know. “You were jealous!”  
  
Now it was Sihtric's turn to frown, shoulders rising defensively. “Was not.”  
  
“Was too!”  
  
“There's a pot calling the kettle black,” Sihtric said stiffly, then suddenly turned to flee. “I have to go find a healer.”  
  
Finan followed him on his heels, glee putting a spring in his step. “Jealousy is a good look on you,” he said happily. “I could get used to it.”  
  
Sihtric bristled, but Finan could see the corner of his mouth twitch as he fought a grin. “Try me next time someone volunteers to take you off my hands.”  
  
Now it was Finan's turn to scoff. “They couldn't handle me.”  
  
He checked the street was empty before he reached out to touch his lover's uninjured hand, briefly curling their fingers together. He felt Sihtric squeeze back, and belatedly, all the emotions he had pushed aside after the fight suddenly boiled over. The indignation at being treated like a blushing maiden unable to decide for herself who to marry was immediately followed by intense pride in the battle prowess of his better half. He'd be a fool if he didn't feel flattered – and reassured – by the ferocity with which Sihtric had defended their bond. “Your trap was spectacular. I'm proud of you. So proud, in fact, we need to tell Osferth to find another place to sleep tonight.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”  
  
Sihtric shook his head, but the spark of interest in his eyes betrayed him. “You are a horrible man.”  
  
“You love this horrible man, though.”  
  
Sihtric squeezed his hand again, then let go when voices suddenly echoed down the street. “Odin help me, but I do.”  
  
Maybe an occasional bout of jealousy would do them some good after all.  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
The good old jealousy trope. Woohoo! :D

Thank you very much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Borrowed the title from the immortal Queen. Best band ever.


End file.
